Another Chance
by kalinmarie
Summary: The beginning of Colonel Brandon and Marianne's relationship.


**Authors Note: Probably the longest fic I've written..not quite sure what I think about this, so looking forward to your opinions! This is NOT proof-read so I apologize for mistakes. This will most likely be a two or three shot. We shall see!**

He couldn't stop thinking about her.

It was a cold night, rain beating down on his window as he sat stiffly in his chair, his fire dying, making the room grow colder than it already was. A book sat on his lap opened somewhere near the halfway mark, a new book written by one of his favorite authors, something he had been quite excited about just weeks before, but all he had done was skim his eyes across the words, rustle the pages with his fingers, and lay it back down. The words swirled on the paper, he couldn't make sense of any of it. The rain had made him lose focus entirely because now, any time it rained, he couldn't get her out of his head. Marianne Dashwood seemed to be followed by storms; they loved her. It had been sprinkling when he arrived at the house that day to find her playing on the pianoforte, the day he had foolishly fallen in love with her. _Love at first sight_ , he wanted to scoff at himself just for thinking of it. A man in his mid-thirties, falling in love so quickly. And, of course, it had been raining the day that she met Willoughby. He had brought her a bouquet of the finest flowers in England, but she preferred Willoughby's flowers, ones he'd probably plucked from a random field on his way; an afterthought, most likely. The rain had destroyed any sort of hope he once had to win her heart, because it gave Willoughby his moment to save her, be some sort of heroic prince charming straight out of a poetic novel. She had fallen in love with him in a brief second, the storm only made their meeting more romantic to her. A brave, handsome young man saving the beautiful damsel in distress before she caught fever in a terrible storm. Then, Colonel Brandon had been given a second chance. Another storm came after she and Willoughby parted ways, but instead of John Willoughby, it had been he that would rescue her that night. When he found her lying there on the ground, shaking from the cold rain, already beginning to get a touch of fever, she was entirely unable to speak or make any sort of effort to stand up. He had lifted her easily, suddenly thankful for everything he'd done to keep in shape, and taken her back home in the pouring rain, lightning striking far too close for comfort. He had shrugged his coat off and thrown it over her to shield her from the downpour, holding her as closely as humanly possible to keep her warm. She murmured a few times. " _Colonel Brandon? Colonel Brandon?"_ As if she couldn't believe he was actually there. Was she dreaming? When they had arrived back at the house, she had passed out completely, and he cursed the rain. Not only had it delivered her into the hands of John Willoughby, that despicable man who seemed to find every way possible to destroy his life and the lives of the two women he cared the most about, but it now seemed to be carrying her -very quickly, too- to her death. Beautiful, young, vibrant Marianne, reduced to a lifeless limp form in his arms.

He couldn't stop thinking about her.

He threw his book down onto the table to his right, realizing that he wouldn't be able to read it. Not now, not until he could get Marianne out of his mind. _You'll never read that book, then,_ he thought. Marianne Dashwood, out of his mind? An impossibility. She'd owned his mind, his heart, his soul, since the day he saw her. He would sell everything, do anything, in order to capture some part, even a small part, of her heart. If he could simply... simply be her _friend,_ he would take it. He ached for her presence for some odd reason that he still did not know, and losing her was simply not an option he was willing to consider, but that is still where his mind kept wandering.

Colonel Brandon stood, walking to the basin of water and pouring himself a glass before making his way to the fire, rekindling it quickly and going towards the window, moving the curtains out of his way so he could turn his gaze out towards the stables. He'd been in the library for what felt like hours. Marianne was still lying in bed, tossing and turning. Sir John had come in twice to speak with him but left quite quickly after, seeing that his friend was in no mood for casual conversation. He wanted to be with Marianne, to see her, to touch her… to know that she was alright. That her heart was still beating, she was still breathing, she was still fighting. And although he was given updates, very kindly by either her mother or sisters, he found that he was still full of nerves. He had no relation to them outside of friendship, and therefore, he was not… not owed the ability to be with her as he would like, so he did not push his presence upon the family. He was exhausted, and he knew that his lack of sleep over the past two nights were the cause of much of his distress. For all he knew, Marianne was doing quite well and the doctor expected her to make a good recovery, even still, she was still a very sick woman. He sighed, finally going back to his chair with the intent of resting, perhaps to close his eyes for a few moments, but just as he had made his way there and lowered his body into the chair, Elinor Dashwood came through the door, beaming.

"She's asking for you." Was all she said, a small, hopeful smile on her face. Marianne had been awake and somewhat lucid a few times, Elinor had said. Once, when he was in her room, after delivering Mrs. Dashwood. She had stopped him before he left, thanked him, and then turned her head towards her mother. Her gratitude was obvious, and he was thankful for it, but he hadn't expected for her to ask for him after that. Why would she? "Me?" He questioned in disbelief.

"She's doing quite well; the doctor says that he believes she will make a full recovery. She has to rest, of course, to take care of herself and not over exert herself for several months, but she's able to speak quite well now. You, aside from mother, were the first person she requested to see since she's been awake this evening." He wasn't sure what to think; he felt as though a great burden had been lifted off of his shoulders knowing that she was expected to make such a quick recovery, that she would live, but when that burden was lifted, another one was placed there. He was _nervous_. Colonel Brandon, a man who had moved off to India by himself as a young man, who had been stabbed, shot, kicked, punched, by enemies with hardly any nervousness in his body, was nervous over meeting Marianne Dashwood. A nineteen-year-old girl.

What on earth was he turning into? He felt like a nineteen-year-old himself.

"Are you certain?"

"Colonel, she hasn't stopped asking for you. I told her to rest more, to let you get a night's sleep, knowing you probably haven't slept since you rode to fetch mother, but she refused. You know how stubborn she is. She wants to see you, and she won't rest until you are there, I'm afraid." Elinor replied. "I would be exasperated at that, but seeing her like this… hearing her fight with me - I suppose I didn't realize how much I would miss our bickering until I nearly lost it."

He walked to the doorway where she was leaning, and put a hand on her shoulder. "She's extremely lucky, you know. To have you." And with that, he was on his way to her sister. By the time he had arrived at her door, his small bundle of nerves had turned into a much larger bag of them - what would she say? Would she curse him for saving her? She had told Elinor she had wanted to die, he knew. She didn't mean it, she would find love for life again, he had gone through a time like this himself, and love sickness could cause terrible feelings to arise and those feelings were very real. Would she be angry with him for stepping in? For still being there even though he should have perhaps left with the Palmers'? He was not family, after all.

"Ah, Colonel Brandon. My daughter is quite eager to see you." Mrs. Dashwood broke him out of his reverie, coming through Marianne's door just as he was about to turn the knob. "I'm going to take these downstairs and fetch her a cup of tea. She's quite irritable this evening, I'm afraid. I hope she doesn't say anything offensive. Although, it is Marianne. We know how she is." Mrs. Dashwood was holding an armful of bedding, her eyebrow raised at the mention of her middle daughter's attitude. He did know how she could be, but hearing how like her old self she seemed to be this evening, he was relieved. "I think I shall survive her moods." He raised his own brow in return at the older woman before stepping through the doorway, taking a breath to steady himself.

"Colonel," He wasn't sure what to expect when he glanced up at her, but whatever he had expected was certainly not what he saw. Marianne Dashwood was shining up at him, _smiling_ at him, as if he was Shakespeare himself. Or Mozart. Wasn't he her favorite composer? Either way, this was certainly not her usual reaction to his presence. "Finally! My sister insisted that I wait to see you until morning but...we know how impatient I am, I suppose." Before he could stutter out a reply, she continued. "I wanted to thank you for…for what you did. For saving me. I can't imagine ho-how angry you must've been at me for running off in the storm. And you not only had to carry me such a long way, but then ride all the way to my mother. I…I'm sorry for everything I've put you through." He felt like his jaw could drop to the floor at any moment. She sat up against a wall of pillows, her joy being replaced by guilt… _real guilt._ She apologized to _him_ for running off, thanked him for finding her. What had happened to her?

"It wasn't…I was simply happy to be of assistance."

"Assistance? You went far beyond simple assistance, Colonel." She glanced down at her lap before reaching over towards the small table at the side of her bed, grasping for something. He went to her side without thinking, ready to help her. He pulled a book out from the drawer there, the only thing he imagined she could be after, and handed it to her without a word. She leafed through the pages for a moment before finding what she had been looking for, and handed it back to him. "It's French." She stated, and he looked at it, reading a few words silently, perplexed. "It is indeed."

"I'm afraid I was a terrible student, Colonel, and did not pay nearly enough attention to anything regarding French. Elinor and I have managed to figure out most of the poems in this book but we seem to be stuck on this one." He listened on, still confused. She had changed topics so quickly; he was still stuck on her apology. "You know French, do you not? I vaguely remember Sir John talking about your knowledge of language."

"Y-yes, I do know it." Was she asking him to help her?

"Tomorrow…when you are well rested, perhaps you could come back and assist me? Read it to me? Elinor offered to try helping me again, and Sir John even offered to read it to me when he came again but…I imagine your reading voice is much nicer." Had she just…complimented him?

"Of course, Miss Marianne." She leaned over, setting the book back on the stand and adjusting herself, forcing her back straighter. She smiled at him again once happy with her position, nodding. "Colonel…Elinor told me… told me about Willoughby and your ward. What happened with them, I mean. Tell me, is-is she...is she okay?" She asked, concern clearly etched on her face as her brows wrinkled.

"She is. She had her baby, you know. Only a couple of weeks ago, a little girl."

"And both of them are well?"

"Yes, they both are. Beth- that is her name- is doing quite well and has recovered quickly. Juliet is the little girl; Beth is quite fond of Shakespeare." He laughed, pausing. "I told her it seemed to be an…an odd choice of name, given the circumstance, but she insisted upon it. She said her love of Shakespeare should not be tainted by Willoughby." He looked at her, and expected her to smile, to be amused at Beth's actions, knowing how alike they are, but instead, she seemed ashamed.

"Miss Marianne? Tell me, I did not offend you?" She turned her head to him quickly then, shaking her head. "No, of course not! Only thinking. I think Beth and I would get along quite well." He raised a brow, surprised that she would say such a thing. He didn't expect her to think of Beth positively considering she had been with Willoughby.

"Yes…you both have quite a few things in common, I believe." Their conversation seemed to have ended, Marianne becoming very quiet. He worried that he had said too much about Beth, or perhaps should have changed the subject the moment that she was mentioned. Was it too painful for her to think of him with another woman? He couldn't imagine going through what she had gone through, even without adding Beth and Juliet into the equation. He took a step towards the door, thinking that it may be his time to leave, but she nearly shot up then. "Colonel, please don't go yet." And he didn't. He sat down then, taking a seat at the chair to her side, scooting it closer to her so they could talk quietly without disrupting the rest of the house. The walls were thin, and he didn't think she would want others hearing this conversations' topic if it continued on the track it had been on.

"You said Beth refused to let go of her love for Shakespeare because of Willoughby…" He nodded, unsure of where she was taking this. "She is much stronger than I."

"You lived through a terrible illness, you fought through this, Miss Marianne. You are strong, much stronger than you seem to be…to be giving yourself credit for."

"She was with him…loved him, I'm sure-" "Yes, she did love him."

"He…he was _intimate_ with her. He is the father of her child, Colonel. She was left alone; she had you, of course, but not _him._ She went through the pregnancy, the delivery, without him. And she didn't run off in a storm and nearly kill herself."

"No, she didn't. But she was very depressed. I saw her. Before the delivery, when she was preparing for the baby to come, she was extremely depressed. If she did not know that she had to take care of Juliet, if she was not mature enough to see that she had a duty as a mother…that taking her own life would mean taking an innocent child's, I don't know if she wouldn't have…" His voice broke, regret clouding his head. He had been responsible for her, the only father figure in her life, and he had let her down. Perhaps, if he had of been there for her more often, if he had of been better, she wouldn't have felt the need to have Willoughby.

"Willoughby has nearly destroyed so many lives." Marianne murmured.

"Nearly. But he has not succeeded, has he?" He took her hand in his, throwing social propriety and his feelings and his nerves aside, in an attempt to comfort her in any way possible. He had no idea how she would respond to this, he only prayed that she did not want to rip her hand away. "He has not." She replied, looking to him. Then, she did something that nearly made his heart stop; she placed her other hand atop of his, gripping it lightly. He gazed down at them, suddenly aware at the differences between them – her hands looked tiny, almost child-like in his, and where his were tanned and scarred here and there from his time in India, working at Delaford and such, hers were pale and completely perfect, no signs of wear or tear.

"I'm trying very hard not to let him destroy mine, Colonel." Their eyes met, and they both quickly became conscious of how close they were. For the first time, he realized that there were tears shining in hers, and he had never wanted to hurt Willoughby as much as he did now. He had grown to dislike the man more and more throughout the last two years, and seeing how Beth had ended up because of him had nearly pushed him over the edge, but he was able to teeter himself back to a calmness knowing that he could protect Beth from him now that he knew better. But now…he felt himself growing angrier and angrier. He supposed he hadn't realized just how much he had hurt her, in an odd way. Of course, he was aware of how upset she had been, but this was the first time she had lost her composure near him, and it broke him.

"You have a family to support you. Mrs. Dashwood, your sisters… and me. If you ever feel as if you are cracking under this again, know that you have our support. That you have my support."

"You would still be my friend, Colonel? After how Willoughby and I treated you? After what I've done? Colonel, I've-I've brought so much s-shame to my family…"

"You've done nothing wrong. All of the fault lies on Willoughby, do not blame yourself." He squeezed her hand, refusing to move from his current position. This was the deepest conversation they had ever had, and he felt as if they were taking so many steps towards a true friendship. He was unwilling to break this, not caring about propriety at all anymore. "I will be here unless you grow tired of my friendship and wish for me to leave."

"I would never want you to leave!" She seemed surprised. "You are the only person, my family aside, who has been a constant fixture for me. I only wish to be worthy of your friendship now."

"You do not need to worry about such a thing. I would be honored to have your friendship."

Thunder cracked from a distance, the lightning shining through her window and lighting up the room even more than before, the candles and fire beginning to die out. It was growing late, and he knew it was time for him to make his leave before Mrs. Dashwood began wondering what they were up to. Although, Mrs. Dashwood had been extremely supportive of his feelings after he had told her how he felt about her daughter on the carriage ride to Marianne. In fact, she had assured him that if she became well, she would do all that she could in order to see that Marianne saw that he would be a good…suitor, in her words. He hoped that she did not push her daughter into anything. As much as he cared for her, he would rather die alone than to have her coerced into a relationship with him. Now, his thoughts plagued him. Had Mrs. Dashwood said anything?

"Has your mother said anything about the carriage ride here?" He inquired, now releasing her hands as he was preparing to force himself away from her bedside.

"No, she's been so busy discussing things with the doctor. We've hardly talked at all apart from her asking me how I feel." She rolled her eyes, gripping his hand tighter in hers when he tried to pull away. His heart skipped again; he'd have a heart attack before this night was over, he wagered. "Thank you again, Colonel Brandon. I know you need to leave, to get rest…but, you will come back tomorrow, won't you?"

"I believe I promised that I'd give you a lesson on French." She grinned, letting go of his hand. He had never looked more forward to reading to someone in his life.


End file.
